


To Do

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Birth, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Graphic Description, Midwife!Sam, Midwifery, Nurse Sam, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Pain, Pregnancy, Sam's Sixty June Jobs Challenge, Swearing, Unplanned Pregnancy, going into labor, labor, maternity, so much swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 02:13:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7295419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re preggers.  These things tend to take care of themselves right?  Suppose the midwife will be all over that.  Maybe she can explain what the hell these hormones are doing to you too.</p><p>Almost 20 weeks of a first time mother meeting midwife Sam and wishing he was a part of this pregnancy in a whole different way.</p><p>Written for @teamfreewill-imagine and @latinenglishfandomblog‘s Sam’s Sixty June Jobs challenge - I got Midwife!Sam</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Do

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warnings:  
> \- I’ve only had two labours, so I’m no expert. This is a mash-up of mine and others’ as I know them.  
> \- I’m in Australia and I don’t know what it’s like to have a baby in the US, so Sam is in the hyper-AU (yet hopefully, one day, real) world of being in the US with a free and comprehensive healthcare system. :D  
> \- Also, Yes this is a Sam story, but when you need to work with a midwife it’s actually kinda because shit is all about you. Hence the first-person.

#### Week 20

“Mooom!”

Oh God.

“MooOOOOM!”

Jesus kid, she said no.  

“Mooooomyyyy”

She’s said it for, like, a whole quarter hour.

“MOOOOO-”

“No Jacob! Behaving badly will not make me change my mind!!”

Holy Shit you stay strong momma, I think at that amazing woman across the waiting room.  You with your, what is that, 13-month pregnancy? And a toddler from hell.  Maybe it’s twins.  Jesus.  I hope my kid’s nicer than that.

Who am I kidding.  They’re all terrible at least once. I mean, I was pretty terrible… Holy God.

“Y/N, L/N?”

I head over to the counter and the woman hands back my folder.  “Nurse Winchester is your midwife today.  Take a seat while you wait Darlin’.”

Winchester.  Sounds serious.  I hope I don’t get in trouble.  I have eaten a lot of potato.  I don’t know if that’s detectable, but I feel like my skin might be potato-ish.  But you eat what you feel like right?  Well, I often feel like potato.  A potato.

Jacob’s mom looks like she could go at any minute and I’m waiting for her to catch me staring.  I’m so worried for her.  Who else is around to help when the baby’s born?  I’m freaking out over one; how is she going to handle one in arms and Jacob the Howling Monkey?

She does catch my eye and in the seconds it takes for her to realise she’s making eye contact with someone, I think enough to mouth _You are doing such a good job!_  And she smiles like she might cry.  Ugh, my heart nearly reaches out across the plastic seating but someone calls out a name and she’s readying herself to stand.

“And who’s this?” says her midwife.

“I’m Jacob! I’m going to be a big brother! And I’m going to help my mom change nappies and bath the baby and teach him how to jump!”  

“And they are so lucky,” his mom says, kissing his head before getting up like she’s performing a reverse topple and I think she might be my hero.

“Y/N L/N?”

“Yes!”  I blab, and glance around to find whoever is talking.

There’s a great big tall guy looking at me from across the room.  He’s fit and broad-shouldered, with brown hair falling down around his eyes that he flicks off his forehead with a twitch.  When he holds up the folder and smiles.  Goodness.  I’ve never seen a more handsome staffer.  He has tight dimples and fine eyes and the lines of his jaw and throat all line up to make him a really, really good looking guy.   He looks like he should be on the cover of my Nanna’s Mills & Boon romances.  Every damn one of them.

“Hi, we’re just down here,” he says.

So I follow him down the corridor and he holds the door open.  G’Lord he smells nice.  Yes, definitely someone who should work in a hospital, helping people feel better. I sit in the chair by the desk and smile in thanks.

“So,” he sighs, sitting in the nurse’s chair. “Y/N, you’re 20 weeks along.”

Holy crap.  He’s the midwife. “Uh, yes.  Yeah.” What does a midwife do? See? I mean this guy, looking at all my parts… am I having a hot flush? No, that’s menopause-

“I couldn’t find anything on your file.  Are you able to have your records transferred here?”

But there are male OBGYNs. It’ll be fine!  Fine fine. “I uh, I haven’t any.  I saw a local doctor back when I first got pregnant, but I haven’t seen anyone since.”  It’s just. He’s not the kind of guy I wanted at the end of my pregnancy. I’d prefer him at the start really, you know? Wink, wink, _nudge_.  Jeez I’ve gotten saucy this trimester.

Shit, I have to focus before I think out loud.

He leans back in his chair and looks concerned, nodding thoughtfully.  “And why is that?” he asks intensely.  I don’t think I’m in trouble.  Yet.  It’s a very peculiar feeling to have a guy use a low voice like that and ask you to explain yourself… Damn these hormones.

“It’s just,” I shrug, “nothing’s happened.  I’m fine.  Nothing hurts.  I mean, I’m getting bigger, and I’ve been really tired, but there’s just nothing to report really.”  

I’ve just, you know, got this pregnancy.  Actually, besides my mood and the exhaustion, it’s a bit ho-hum so far.

“Right,” he nods more, a little relieved.  “Okay, fair enough.”

He types and I brace myself for the next set of questions, probably about my family and support network and-

“Before we go much further, what sort of support network do you have?”

Deep sigh.  “Okay, so I’m happy,” I assure him, “I’m not scared.  Like, beyond reason.  My parents moved to Canada and they’re not well enough to travel, which is well, crap, but can’t be helped.  They’re fine.  I have work.” I’m about to runoff the rails here.  “I haven’t any siblings.  I have friends-”

“Okay, that’s good.”

“But the father is gone.”  I blink and breathe and wait to see how I’ll feel about that today.

He doesn’t say anything, and he shifts his notes a bit but the silence is hard.  

“I mean, not _gone_ gone.  He’s in finance and moved to Europe but-”

“Ah, okay-”

“No, we broke up, amicably, just, like, _really_ amicably, and he’s about to go to Japan-”

“You don’t have to explain-”

“He knows.  He’s just not interested in-”

“That’s not my concern, Y/N,” he says levelly and leans forward.  “My concern is that you have people, that you’re well and feeling good about your pregnancy.”

My mouth hangs open, mid-thought, and I’m stuck staring at him showing me more attention than anyone else truly has in the past four months.  He seems so genuine, so invested. And when I think about it, I am going okay.  “I am well,” I smile, nodding a little, “and I do feel good about this pregnancy.”

“Awesome,” he grins, and I feel like I’ve done _such_ a good job!  Damn these hormones!

He chats about diet, smoking, alcohol, blows off my worries about excess starch, takes my blood pressure, asks about exercise and work, and do I know what’s coming and I nod yes to everything, even the questions that make me think I need to read more so I’m not lying.  I don’t really know what’s coming, but there’s not much I can do to change the future, is there?

“Alright, so let have a look at this baby,” he says and gives me a hopeful smile while I take a deep breath.

“Do I-” My fingers tuck under the hem of my shirt, because I’m not sure what he means.

“Hop up on the bed and pull up your top,” he says.  So I do what the midwife says. The very handsome… tall… handsome midwife.

“Have you felt any movement yet?” he asks, collecting a few things.

“Uh, no,” I say.  “Should I?”

“Even if you don’t feel anything till 25 weeks, that’s normal with your first,” he smiles.  “One of my friends described it like she was holding a fish in her hands.”

“Okay.”  That sounds sweet.  I’m nervous.  I don’t know why, I just am.

He cups his hands and feels over my belly as though he’s moulding the pregnancy into place, cuddling from above.  They’re warm and really big, but it’s lovely to be touched by someone for a change.  Ugh, shut _up_ hormones.  He pulls out a measuring tape and tucks my jeans down a little, searching for the top of my pubic bone, then measures from there to a point up my belly - I don’t know how he chose that particular spot.

“So you’re fundal height is on course,” he smiles again.

“Okay.”  I don’t know what a [fundal height](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FFundal_height&t=OTA1ZWU2M2RkMjExOTBjMWU2MmRkYTBhZWNjYjBkNWI2MWZjMjRmZixFTTVZaHhEQw%3D%3D) is.

He pulls over a device on a stand and squirts some gel onto my belly, then puts a fat little wand into the gel and moves it around, and suddenly there’s this sound, a fast _piwhh-piwhh-piwhh-piwhh_ and it’s so unmistakably the heartbeat of something so small-

“Oh!” I gasp and put my fingers to my mouth.  I can’t help it, I’m welling up! “It’s a baby!”

“Yeah,” he smiles, broad and warm, “it’s a baby.”

It’s my baby! In my body! Being there and doing its thing and just waiting and growing.  I have a baby.  I have a little life.  And it’s here because of me.

I blink the tears away and chew my chin straight.

“You okay?” he asks, his hand gently hugging my shoulder as I lay there.

“Yeah! Yeah, I just,” I talk at the ceiling while he wipes the gel off my skin with a paper towel.  “Wow, I didn’t realise I would react like that.”

He helps me sit up on the bed and says “Hormone’s are fun hey.”

“Oh fucking hell aren’t they?”

He turns to the desk with a full-body laugh and I realise “Oh shit! Sorry!  Sorry, I didn’t mean to swear.  Shit.  Sorry.”

But he’s still laughing because- Ah Gaddammit! Can I apologise without saying Shit?!

“Sh- Sorry,” I say solemnly.  “Yes, hormones are fun.”

“It’s fine, just wait till you get to the labour,” he jokes.  

Damn, that’s another deep breath right there.

He gives me back my folder and puts his hands on his hips.  “Your job is to get some friends on board and find out your local services.  If you get stuck, call us, we can help, but you need to line up help for after the birth, okay?”

“Okay,” I nod, with no clear idea of how I’ll do any of that. My work is my life. I met Anthony through a colleague and him going overseas suited me just fine-

“Call me,” he insists, and I nod and try to think if I’ve ever even seen my ‘local services’ let alone know where to find them.  I haven’t even picked out a spot for a cot. _The_ cot.  

“Tell you what, I’ll call you,” he says, and I look up to see him blinking a resolute smile to himself.

“Okay, thanks.”  For a moment, the idea of a guy calling me to make sure I’m okay fills me with longing and hope and glee, but I try to shake it off because it’s not that at all.  He’s just being very good at his job.  It’s still hard, when I leave, to not keep turning back to smile and say thank you and look very carefully at the way he says “You’re welcome.  Take care Y/N.”  It’s like my emotions have become this apple-shining student, rigid with enthusiasm in the front row, forever with her hand up.

He is quite lovely to look at, and as much as I shouldn’t, I still walk down the street feeling smug and lucky that _he_ is going to call me.  Fucking hormones.

#### Week 21

“Hello?”

“Y/N?”

“Yes, speaking.”

“It’s Nurse Winchester.”

“Oh hi!  God, it sounds like you’re telling me my name!  How are you?” I ask, and take another bite of toast.  “It’s only been three days, how many friends am I supposed to have lined up?”  It would seem that, without the distraction of his face or body around, I’m a complete and utter chatterbox with this guy.  There is no way I’m not going to embarrass myself with this many words.

“Uh well,” he laughs, “as many as you like.  I just wanted to give you a few numbers to call.”

“Okeydokey, shoot,” I say, pen at the ready, and end up noting down the local playgroup service, Maternal Child Health Service, breastfeeding group and toy library.

“Call them sometime before the baby comes, just to get yourself familiar with them so you’re not going in blind when you’re working on 4 broken hours of sleep.”

Yikes.  I think I’ll sleep more than that.  “Okay, thanks.  Thank you for that.  And hey, can I ask-?” Such a chatterbox.

“Sure,” he says.

“You must get asked this a lot, but how did you become a midwife?”

“Sure, I was a nurse, and I retrained for this,” he says plainly.

“But why? There can’t be many male midwives,” I lean back in my chair and finish the toast, ignoring the little voice that says _He’s got a job to do you know, get off the fucking phone!_

“No I haven’t met any others,” he agrees.  “But I do it because it’s important.”

I think for a second, suspicious.  “All those jobs are important.  Why midwifing?  Midwiffdom. Midwifery?”

“Midwifery.  No, really, because it’s important, and because I helped my sister through her labour when I was a nurse and just, was blown away by the expertise and skill and compassion they showed.”

“Right,” I nod.  “Well, that makes me feel a whole lot better about the labour.”

“Yeah?”

“No, not much.”

He laughs, a single _Ha!_ and says “Hey, everyone from teenagers to the Queen has given birth.  You’ll do fine.”

“Thanks,” I say and wrap up his words like a little keepsake in my pocket.   _Nurse Winchester says I’m going to do fine._

“Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?”

“Oh god, just about anything else but being pregnant.  Seriously.  There is other stuff happening in the world, right? Everyone I speak to is all Are you _okay?_ How you doing all by yourself? When’s it due? Is it a girl or a boy? Yes! It’s probably a girl or a boy. Just- does it end? Ever? Sorry,” I shake my head, “You’re actually calling about that topic. So, no. I suppose.”

“Hey I got a little time,” he says and he sounds like he’s leaning back or getting comfortable.  “What would you rather talk about? Not breastfeeding, obviously.”

“Holy crap, that’s a whole other can of worms,” I blurt.  “There is no way - _no way!_ \- I can get this right, is there?”

He starts laughing at my thinking aloud and I figure, I’m never going to see this guy again, probably _any_ guy again.  Scfrew it, I’m gonna chat.

We talk for over an hour and he’s giving me some solid gold advice when reality hits - “You’re the Momma Y/N.  Everyone else can tell you what they think but at the end of the day, it’s your baby, you’re in charge.  What you say go- OHshit!”

“What?!”

“Shit, it’s later than I thought!” I can hear shuffling and papers and him moving around.

“I’m so sorry.  Look, you go - thank you so much Nurse Winchester-”

“Oh God, I can’t believe I never told you, my name is Sam,” he blusters, his voice bouncing around from the phone being wedged against his shoulder.  One of those great big shoulders.

“Sam, well, thank you.  I really appreciate it.  Best talk I’ve had in ages.”

“Me too, Y/N, really.  And hey if you need anything,” he stops, puffing a bit, but his voice becomes clearer, “anything at all, you call me okay? On this number.”

“Okay.  Thank you,” I nod and smile.

“Okay, I gotta go.  Bye, Y/N, look after yourself.”

And then he’s gone.

#### Sometime around Week 23

I think I could still have sex missionary style, were some safe and promising sex to present itself.

I’ve been cruising Amazon’s adult toys section, reading reviews, coz I don’t know where else to get some you know, adult content, outside of my brain.  I wonder how many sex toys are purchased by pregnant women.  

Everything about me is switched on.  My nipples never gave a hoot before; now they’re like flag bearers, heralding all things desired until I sleep again.  And my junk!  Holy shit!  Everything is a little bit bigger and I think coz there’s more of it, there’s more stuff that can feel and… it’s like I’ve grown another 10,000 nerves to use.

So yeah, pathetically scoping Amazon is what I’ve resorted to coz I won’t watch free porn.  The next best thing is trying my hardest to fill in the gaps of Sam’s face and hands.  And I really don’t want to think of him like that because maybe I will see him again, but Jesus.  He’s so big.  He seemed so… rich.  Like, slow cooked meat rich.  No, I know, but imagine the caramelised parts and… all that protein.  Okay my organs are just so confused right now.  He just… uh I can’t remember my words.  He seems _good_ for me.  

And very much like an incredible person at fucking.  

#### Week 24

So I’ve compromised.   My standard fantasy now is that Sam calls again and he tells me what I should do uh… to myself.  I think he must be like a double-expert because he’s seen so many vaginas in action, doing all the things they can do.  Obviously I’m confident he gets a lot of ass outside of work.  Not that he gets it inside work, but his _exposure_ \- …you know what I mean.

#### Week 25

There is _no way_ Sam isn’t a whole other level of fucking expert - physically and academically - on vaginas and vulvas.   _No way._  I mean, he’s got to have been down there doing everything he can think of with a woman, watching her respond and listening and giving…  His shaggy hair just beyond my belly and his shoulders - Rrr! Grd! Those broad shoulders between my knees.  Fuck! And those fingers!  Mine are so small, smaller still now that my crumpet has swollen.  I just want everything.  Things I’ve never tried before, and every one of them involves him.  Probably coz he’s the most handsome and trust-worthy guy I’ve ever met, but God what I’d give right now for him to try out some stuff on me.  Those 50-shades beginner kits? Or a Cleopatra clip, or like a teeny little ass plug even, or a little finger wand!

Holy fuck balls I need some sex.

#### Week 25 and 3 days

I felt the baby move.  I thought I’d resent always having someone around, but I’ve found I can pretend it’s not there whenever I like.  Like when it’s dark and I’m thinking of Sam.

I still need some sex.

#### Week 26

I get Midwife Jenny someone.  I feel silly but I’m so hopeful, looking around for Sam.  She’s lovely, with a grey skater-helmet head of hair and talks like a librarian.  It’s all pretty quick and I try to be a good patient. She doesn’t seem to be someone I can ask about hormones. Which is what I’m assuming is making me so horny. I mean, I’ve read things.  I _read_.  But I’m seeking out material that’s a lot more… _explicit_ than I’ve ever considered. And then there’s still Sam, bursting into my mind whenever I finally turn off my phone and stare at the darkness. I’m trying things, even though it’s just me… I just have some very busy junk right now. That’s all.

#### Week 30

Okay, I’ve finally turned off the CapxBucky smut and looked at a pregnancy book. Everything scares me. What can I do really? Labour is coming. It’ll do what it’s gonna do!  Midwife Agatha of the Ethereal Purple Layers seems to feel similarly, but wishes I’d consider a doula anyway.  I’m not sure what that is, but I tell her I’ll definitely buy one of those.

#### Week 32

I get Sal.  I don’t like Sal.  She’s tall and watches me answer her like she knows I didn’t study. I can’t seem to say anything right. Thank God there’s nothing to report. I’m fine. Baby’s fine. The only thing wrong is I can’t seem to eat enough and I’ve always got heartburn and people won’t stop fucking touching my belly. I wish I had Sam in front of me so I could vent about that.  He probably wouldn’t need to hear me blab on about whatever, but I keep thinking of how he laughed down the phone and I wish I’d seen it in real life.  God, 20 weeks was ages ago.

#### Week 34

Julia sees me this time. She maternal and bosomy and practical and suddenly we’re talking about birth plans. No one’s brought this up yet.  Drugs, intervention, birthing partner, suction, forceps, gas, TENS machines, bath, walking, sitting, laying down, beanbags, fitballs, fucking What. Ever.   _I don’t know._  What’s to plan? I plan to have a baby! Ha ha! I plan to assemble the cot and wash the little clothes. I plan to pick a name.  I plan to get a grabby tool for things I’ve dropped on the floor.  I plan to set my expectations low and just, _you know,_ leave the hospital with a child.  Preferably mine.  Preferably healthy.  There.   _Planned._

#### Week 35

Julia calls.  Not Julia the midwife but Julia the grandmother-to-be of Anthony’s impending baby.  Shit.  And Anthony must’ve downed a few too many sakes because he didn’t tell her till last week.  She’s concerned, hoping I’m eating properly, exercising (exercising? wtf? I can get to work: yey me), even presumed to ask if I have funds.  I do have funds; I’m a senior engineer for a software developer, and I hear the maternity leave is fucking awesome, but I don’t tell her that.  I tell her my family has money, which she loves.  It takes a while longer to explain that I really am her son’s age and no, I won’t be seeking child support, at which she seems simultaneously relieved as hell and disappointed in her son for not offering.

She’s in Maine.  I’m in Oregon.  Thank fuck.

And I assemble the goddamn cot, which is exhausting.  It’s huge.  And I wash some clothes.  Anything to not have someone visit from Maine.  

I look at Sam’s number a lot.

#### Week 35.5

Oh my god, teeny socks are teeny and losable.  Everything is so damn cracker-sized there no point folding any of it.  Some of them start at 0000!! They call it quad-zero.  Why not start at zero?!!!

#### Week 36

Is this full term? Or week 38? I’m never sure. Annabelle at work has thrown me a little baby shower which is so sweet.  I got a lot of booties, towels, wraps, and face cloths.  Everyone aaaaws when I open each parcel and everyone has advice about each parcel and I just can’t keep it all in my head.  I start to take notes after the fourth gift.

Beth tells me size zero is for 6-12month old, so that size 1 is for 1 year olds.  Fair point.

I’ve started substituting words for curses, so I don’t curse in front of the baby.  I figure if I can build the habit now, I’ll be all set when they’re talking.

#### Week 37

Ok, this time I go in swinging.  Poor Midwife Faith sits there and watches me tell her what’s what like her hair’s being blown back.  I’m going to have a bath, if there’s time, and I want a TENS machine, but I will have gas if I want and I’m not going to turn down pain relief but I want to wrap it up after 8 hours if possible because that’s a working day and I don’t need to be a hero, so let’s intervene if necessary, forceps, suction, episiotomy, whatever, let’s just get this labour done yeah?

And at the end of it she says “It’s so good to see you prepared, dear, but just so you know, sometimes plans have to go out the window.  Let’s just aim to have a baby, okay?”  Motherf- Mother _goose_.

On the way out, I catch sight of someone I think might be Sam.  If he really was that tall, and that broad.  I dunno, so I head down the corridor as fast as I can scuttle.  I start holding my belly up and I think I must look like an octopus running on its hind legs. I feel more and more stupid as I get further from the parking lot and closer to whoever this poor guy is.  He gets into an elevator and when he turns to press the button he says “Y/N!”

“Sam!”  

He slaps his hand on the door to keep it open and steps out.  He’s smiling at me and I smile back, finally coming to a stop and pretending I’m not puffing my ass off.  Could I not grow lungs into my neck or something?  Everything else has grown, why not lungs?

“Oh, don’t let me keep you,” I wheeze.

“How are you?” he looks down, “You’re, like a month off yeah?”

“Yeah,” I grimace and push down on my belly.  “Parts of me wish it was sooner.”

“I bet,” he says and smiles.  Really smiles.  “It’s good to see you.  You look so well.”

“I am, really.  I’m just about outta knives and forks, coz once they’re dropped that’s it, you know? But spoons are fine for most things.”

He laughs and I beam, rubbing my palm over the patch where the baby keeps kicking.  His eyes glance down at the action.  

“You wanna feel?” I offer.  I haven’t offered that to anyone.

He nods a bit and leans over, his huge hand warm and heavy, and a little foot dinks itself right into his palm.  “Aw, that’s a strong one!  Right in the ribs too!”

“Fuckin’- shit!  I mean, Fudgin’ yes.  Right in the goddamn ribs.”  I shake my head at myself.

“You wanna grab a snack?” he asks, pursing his lips to stifle a giggle.

“Usually,” I say, relieved.  “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Nowhere urgent,” he grins and ushers me towards the cafeteria.

After a while I figure he’s trying to nut out if I ever got that support network going, because he looks extra thoughtful when I say work has kept me from visiting my parents for more than a long weekend.  Annabelle would be my birthing partner and I manage to avoid actually using the word _would_ , because well, Annabelle hasn’t been asked yet.  I’m not sure why I need one, to be honest.  What are the midwives for?

“You know, sometimes it’s hard to talk during labour,” Sam tells me.   “Your birthing partner is your advocate in those times, speaking for you if you’re incapacitated and making sure your wishes are met.”

The pain.  The idea of it makes me feel light-headed because I know I can’t even imagine what it’s going to be.  I don’t want Annabelle to see me in pain.  There isn’t anyone I’m close enough to for that, except my parents, and they’re stuck with video calls every other day.

“Are you okay?” he asks, fingertips touching my upper arm.

“Yeah!” I smile. “Just tired.”  He doesn’t look convinced. “And anyway,” I go on, “I think my priorities and the hospital’s are about the same.  Leave with a healthy baby.  I don’t mind how that happens.”

Sam does a little shruggy smile and seems to take that as an answer.  I look out the window and realise there’s a park out there, something lush and roughly planned, with clutches of natural forest about.  I spot a pregnant woman walking over near the edge of one, and a guy a little behind her. Her belly is low, lower than mine, and she isn’t really wearing enough for the weather.  She stops to put her hands on her knees and he rubs her back.  I watch, mouth easing slack and brow contorted in worry and fear as her face goes red for awhile. Then she smacks the guy’s hand away and he steps back with a water bottle outstretched for her.  She ignores it, heaves herself tall, and keeps walking as he shadows behind.

Sam’s watches with me and when he turns back he sees my expression, which is about 90% Apprehension and 210% Can’t.

His hand wraps around mine as it lays on the table.  “You’ll be fine,” he says firmly, “you really will. You’ll get this done so well.”

His thumb brushes over my hand, over the veins that now stand out since my body made all this blood, for all this work, for this life.

I look at him and feel everything.  The way the weight pulls on the muscles across my back, the push up into my stomach and spread of my ribcage, the pressure on my bladder, the tightness low on what was once my waist, the swelling around my vagina like I’m sitting on a frikken balloon animal, the fullness of my breasts and just, how my body doesn’t seem my own some days.  I’ve been feeling like I’d just ride this wave until I hit the shore, just work on staying afloat - pragmatic optimism, I call it - but the closer I get the more my nice pea green boat feels like half a surfboard.

“They want me to go back to work after 6 weeks,” I say weakly.  

Sam’s sigh is tight and frustrated and I feel bad for dumping my worries on a virtual stranger.  He pulls out his phone and digs up a number while I take as deep a breath as I can and snap out of it.  

“Whatever happens happens right?” I say, trying to make things light again.  “People get through this all the time.”

Sam nods his eyebrows while he puts the phone to his ear.  “Hey Ruth, it’s Sam… yeah, soon I hope.  Hey I’ve got a new mom-to-be for you, her name’s Y/N and she’s kinda going it alone.  You got some time?”

In a second he hands the phone to me and says “She’s a Maternal Child Health Nurse near you.  Have a chat.”

Ruth introduces herself and talks about what she does, and we figure out that I won’t be able to see her until after the baby’s born, whenever that is, so she makes a time for a phone conversation on Thursday, right at the end of a work day.  I suddenly feel only 30 weeks pregnant.  I give Sam’s phone back and he seems happier but tense.  

“You have to work up to your due date?”

“Until the birth,” I confirm.  “But it’s mostly a desk job.”

He thinks about it, flips his phone over in his hand, then checks his watch, which I take as a cue.

“So maybe I’ll catch you at the labour?” I say lightly.  I haven’t asked if you can request a particular midwife, but I wish I had the guts to do so.

“Yeah I hope,” he says, a little unsure.  “I’ve actually just finished retraining again, though.  I should be gone by your due date.”

“What do you mean gone?”

“I’m not moving, but my job at the hospital should end before then.”

And suddenly he seems even further away.  I’ve been leaning on him too much.  Not even him, in fact, just the idea of him.

I don’t know anything anymore.  My emotions aren’t unreasonable but they go to 11 so fast.  I haven’t watched the news in weeks and I change channels if anything as soppy as a life insurance ad pops up.  I’m escaping into romcoms and I can’t even really talk to my mom any more because I just can’t give her my worries.  So right now, what feels like cold panic should probably be merely disappointment.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he says.  “I have to go.”

“Okay.”

“But you still call me if you need anything, okay?”  He slips his fingers under my palm and runs his thumb over my knuckles.  “Anything at all Y/N.”

I smile my best smile and let the crinkles by my eyes lie for me.  “Of course, you’re on speed dial!”

“Really. I’m so glad I saw you again.” He smiles and nods and gives my fingers a squeeze before he leaves.

#### Week 38

It’s not that I’m elephantine as such but sex would almost certainly be from behind these days.  Also, my muff feels massive.  You know how little bumps can feel like new elbows? It’s like the crowd of nerves in your fingers don’t realise that they’re over representing the situation?  Well, I’m sure it doesn’t look that different down there but I can’t see it and it feels like a whole other world. 

And so, of course, my addled brain immediately jumps to Sam being big enough to meet that change and I wonder what he’d say about that, whether the fleshiness of it would be like an upgrade to first class, or getting a bigger helping of dessert.  I don’t even imagine him going down on me anymore because it’s surely too big a meal for anyone right now, even Sam.

Instead, I lay in bed and imagine Sam spooning me, reaching with his long arms and deft fingers, sliding sweet pressure into me, and telling me I’m beautiful and amazing.  I imagine how easily he could move me - easier than I can move myself - and fuck me so well I go into an early labour.

#### Week 38 and 5 days

“Sam?”

“Y/N!  Hi!  How you going? I-  Uh,” he clears his throat.  “I’ve been thinkin’ about you.”

“’At’s good!”

“How are you doing?”

“Are… Are you busy?”

“Uh, nope, why what’s up?  You okay?”

One minute.  

Just a minute.  Oh Jesus….  Minutes are long….

“Y/N?”

Okay.  Okay.  Ooooookay.  “Ooooh fuck.  So,” I breathe deep and look over the lawn.  There’s a middle aged couple sitting where Sam and I last talked.  “So, they’ve told me to go home but I’m out in this park area by the cafe?”

“Yeah I know it-”

“And I’ve been pulling a fucking suitcase around the grass for an hour.”

“Do you want to go home?”

“I can’t _drive_ ,” I say, like _What the fuck?_  “I’ve taken two days off already.  I mean, the first day was like bad period cramps and back ache but nothing happened, no plug, just this really slow rhythm, so prelabour right?”

“Yeah, you been reading?”

“Fucking, _I’ve had time_ ,” I try to stretch myself comfortable but for the 1332nd attempt, it still doesn’t help.  “And inspiration.  And yesterday was kinda stop start. I feel wider.”

“Yeah you will be, I reckon.  Who’s with you?”

Oh shit.

“Y/N? Is that another one?”

“No, I’m just …thinking up a lie.”  I keep shuffling, teetering along the grass like some drunken tourist.  I don’t know how my belly hasn’t just dropped off my skeleton.

“Sam, I don’t want to go home.  I don’t know- uh!”  Ah fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuck fffffff it’s taking everything I have to not kneel on the ground because I’ll never get up again.  I can hear Sam talking me through something, something about breathing and riding it out and when the surge settles in I can catch “-two days now, you see how strong you are?”

“Ah, ah, ah, hmmm!” I breathe in through my nose, “ah shit, ah ah-huuuuuuuuuuuuuuUUUHGoooood Saam-” saliva pools and tears leak out my nose, I breathe and breathe and it begins to ease off.  The pain is so unique.  I can feel bones between my butt cheeks, ones I’ve never really met before, being pushed apart and it has this dull relentless force.  The weight that’s been hanging off my back is now sitting right in the middle of my pelvis and is somehow double what it’s ever been.  I’m sure there’s literally centimetres of distance added between my sitting bones.  My sacrum, that big bone between my hips, is kind of screeching in the background and it’s skin always feels like it was just slapped.  If I wasn’t actually walking I wouldn’t think it’s possible.  “Do you think if I just lay down here they’ll notice and send someone out?”

“Would you mind if I came over?”

“Oh god fuck no Sam please yes fuck come over.” I lean the heel of my hand into my back as I talk.

“Okay.  Start making your way back to the maternity desk.  Take a wheelchair if someone offers.  Hell, if you see one just sit in it.  I’ll meet you or find you.  Alright?”

“Alright,” I puff.  I can’t even feel my ankles any more.  “Okay, meet you there.”

“Alright, I’m on my way,” he says and hangs up.

I have another contraction at the edge of the park, leaning on a wall while I wait and pretend I don’t want to make noise.  There’s another in the corridor, near the elevators, and a hospital volunteer thinks to ask if I want help.  I nod, unable to really look at them and they take the suitcase and grasp my hand, letting me lean my forearm on theirs as we slowly shuffle along.

I wonder if I’m being precious, if I can just buck up and stand straight and go, but as soon as I try and relax and just walk, none of it moves like normal.  Two more happen as we edge along, me puffing “Thank you,” to the stranger every now and then.  “Thanks for not stealing my stuff,” I say, slurping saliva between breaths.

“Don’t mention it.  Almost there, you’re doin’ great.”

Pride alone is what keeps me quiet.  The contractions are so strong I have to stop walking and breathe through my teeth.  It looks like I’m bobbing on my knees but really I’m pushing off collapse.

I feel like my subconscious is thrown out of my body, astrally projected to some surreal, lucid space where I’m thinking “I’d really like to get my pants off right now, coz there’s liquid and stuff and ugh, clothes, no more clothes please, oh I could do with some energy, I wonder if I’ll get a midwife I know, did I pack the gummy bears or the sour straps? I want apple juice.  “Apple juice!”

“Y/N!”

I can’t even look up, but I know these are his jeans and shoes and it’s his shirt I’m fisting, leaning against his surprisingly firm stomach.  “Sam!  Rrrrsh-t!”

“You got it from here?” the kind person asks.

“Yeah, I’m on it, thank you,” Sam says, and I can manage a pat of their arm before the next contraction really kicks in.  I open my mouth and it feels like my gums are sweating cold, managing to whimper a kind of _aa-aa-aah-ha_ sound as a proper solid contraction finishes making a real difference to my pants size.

“Can you sit?”

I don’t answer because I’m working so hard on not making any noise, except instead I’m wheezing a rasping-whimpery-pleading sound I think, I can’t tell and I’m about to not care.  All of me is consumed with the pressure and pain of my hips widening.

As soon as it eases off, the relief lifts me.  Lightness lays itself on my shoulders and arms, but everything below the ribs feels like it’s at the bottom of the ocean.  A wheelchair hits my calves and I bend my knees.  I don’t want to sit, but I manage to put my weight into the chair somehow, mostly on my elbows.  I hold on tight and let Sam drive.

Maybe it’s the change of position, but another contraction doesn’t come for a while yet.  I blink my wet eyelids and wish that somehow I could be nude without embarrassment.

“Hey Faith,” I hear him say.  “Which room for Y/N?”

“Sam! Oh, Y/N, you back already?”

“She really is, and I’m a friend.  Where should I take her?”  He sounds like he’s trying to not rush his words.

“Room 6,” she says, gauging the situation, “I’m right behind you.”

There’s a breeze in my hair and we take the corners just shy of sensibly.  The chair stops by the end of the bed and he helps hinge me out of the seat, my forearms landing on the bed so I can lean.

Suddenly all my shyness is gone.  I work my yoga pants off, panties with them.  A big medical absorbent pad appears between my feet and I can see drips of reddish fluid.

“Can I check?” he asks and I grunt like a yes.  For fractions of a second I can feel his fingers, the rubber of his gloves, detecting the edge of something.  “Okay, looks right on schedule, all good,” he says to himself and things are moved around behind me, a few monitoring devices attached to my belly and finger.

I want to know too, so I reach down and feel the hard ridges of my cervix barely an inch inside the singing tender flesh of my vagina.  The skin at my perineum stings, and towards the front is hot with pain too, but there in the middle is a patch of hardness, wet and hairy, that’s not me.  “Oh my god, there it is,” I pant.

“Yeah, you’re a ways along.”

“That feels like a lot,” I say, looking up.  

“You’re almost there,” he says and smiles, “See? You’re doing great.”  He thumbs some strands from my forehead and the heat of his palm over my ear is lovely, grounding, but the next contraction hits me like a wave.  There’s a pull first, something with enough warning that I start to grab at him and he holds my forearms, saying “I got you,” before my body damn near drops a piano on my gut. I feel it, thumping all the way down to my knees, pulling from under my armpits, and I buckle onto the ground.  I grab onto the back of Sam’s arms and thud my forehead into his chest as he holds me up, letting me hang off his bracing hold as I kneel and cry out.

I feel the sound of the contraction inside me - an earthquake-pitched tone of driving muscles and torrential blood - and, over that, I can hear myself making the most pitiful noises, like near silent sobbing, this _Aah-ha_ with a wheeze and he murmurs through it “That’s it, keep going, won’t be much more after this, you’re doing so well Y/N, you’re so strong.”

This is the one, I think, that’ll come with a cracking sound.  But no such thing happens.  At it’s end I swallow and pant, grunting as I rock back and forth on my knees.  I may still throw up yet.

I reach down to feel again.  “Is that-?” then grab Sam’s gloved hand so he can feel too. “Is that 10 centimetres?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Uh thank fuck,” I pant and have a strange feeling like I should walk it off, but I’m also encased in imaginary concrete up to my armpits. “Uh god, hrrrrgod,” I start to clench my jaw, “Uhgod, Sam-”

“Yeah, I gotcha.”

“Sam, uuuuugod, uhSam I wanna push!”

“I know, you’re set to go, Y/N. You can push.”

I keep groaning, right up till contraction comes, but it’s different.  Everything is engaged, everything switched on, but it has a direction I’m driving just a little bit more than before, and it feels like my hips are waiting, legs pushed apart from my spine, waiting, so I hold on tight and direct all the pent up frustration and patience into my gut and push.  I grind and call out, but by the end nothing seems to have changed.

I pant this time, like a break in the tumble-turn, and then there’s another.  “RrrrrrrrrruuuhgodSaam…. Uh-huh” Breathe! “Uh-hu-hu Aaafuuck _Aaaah_ that’s it!”  I puff and pant and reach down, and feel not just the bone and hair but a curve. “Oh come on baby, come on-”

“That’s it, Y/N, you’re doing it, I gotcha.”  Sam moves himself behind me, almost flush against my back with his arm under mine, forearm across my chest.  “I gotcha, you’re doin’ great.”

“Oh comeoncomeoncomeon baby, come on my love-”

“I gotcha Y/N, use your hands,” his voice is right by my ear, deep and steady and I feel suspended from him.  He takes one of my hands and leads it to the baby’s head, and I leave my fingers there while I lean the other on my thigh, then the chair nearby, and storm through another contraction.  It stings like a screaming bitch, the last resistance whipping my skin, and I grunt long and push, really _push_ , and the head bursts free.  

“Ahhhthere you go!”

“Both hands, Y/N,” he says, “I gotcha, just one more.”

The next contraction comes fast and I feel the slippery head in my fingers.  I can detect the baby turning a little, parts of me moving aside for the breadth, and I have a bit more space now so really clench down on a proper fuck-off push and suddenly the shoulders are free and the baby slides out.  I catch it, splaying and hooking my fingers, support its head and catching the armpits and back, and Sam’s hands are there behind mine, under it’s butt, far and away large enough to hold the whole thing at once.  “Oh baby!  Hey baby!” I say, my voice peaking as I sit on my feet.  “Hold him please.”

Sam cradles him in front of me and I whip off my top, sick of feeling hot and wanting my baby against me.  There’s a cough, a bleating cry for a moment, and I gasp _ooohsweetheart!_ , surprised by how relieving it is. I lean back against Sam, between his thighs, slide down a little and cradle the little body on my chest. “Aaaw hey baby!  Hi gorgeous!  Oh look at you! You got all your parts!”

Sam’s so warm behind me, his hands on my arms soothing and lovely, and he watches me coo and sigh at the teeny human sliding on my skin.

“Let’s get you on the bed,” he says, almost into my hair.  The belly monitor is removed and he slowly and carefully helps me off the ground enough to climb onto the bed and onto another big absorbent paper pad.  Faith lays a heated blanket over us and I’m pretty sure she’s been there the whole time.  She explains something about hospital policy to give an injection for the placenta and I nod happily - do whatever the hell you want Faith, I’m good.

Birthing the placenta is uncomfortable, but quick and relatively easy. Sam leans over me and says “You’re going to need a few stitches.”

“Okay,” I answer and beam up at him for a moment.  Whatever.  He laughs, stroking my hair, “You did great, Y/N.  So good.”

“Yeah,” I sigh and really I don’t care what happens next.  I’m covered in goo, there’s a stranger injecting anaesthetic into my ass, I’ve probably made new wrinkles on my face and I’ve never felt less attractive but I couldn’t. Actually. Care. Less.

Look at this little thing.

“You got a little boy,” Sam says beside me.

“Yeah… Sit,” I say, gesturing beside myself, “sit down.”

“No, I shouldn’t-”

“Fuck off, you’re the friend.  Sit down.”

I watch my baby move, little jerky signs of life under the warmth of the blanket.  He starts to make little noises and seems to sleep between efforts.  He’s perfect.  Wrinkled and dark pink now, squished beyond any recognition, and alive and mine.  My baby.

“You wanna cut the cord, Y/N?” Faith asks.

“Nah, you do it.” I don’t even look up.

“Sam, you should do it, birth partner,” Faith smiles.  (Sam doesn’t look at her; he doesn’t want to know what Faith thinks.  But he does cut the cord.  It’s the first time in 8 years of delivering babies and he never thought he’d care.)

My baby seems to wake up then, a slow, slack jawed, blinky face, and then these dark bleary eyes find me, his head tilting back so he can stare.  “Hey baby, hey my beautiful boy.”

“Did you pick out a name?” Sam asks.

“Daniel.”

“Oh yeah, that’s an awesome name,” Sam says, stroking Daniel’s temple with the tip of his finger.  ”A prophet.”

“Yeah, well, in the hopes that he’ll be better prepared than me,” I say.  “And it’s a nice name.  Dan. Daniel.  Dan can pitch a tent.  Dan can grow a beard.  And I haven’t met a Daniel I didn’t like.”

“Me neither,” says Sam.

Faith collects Daniel and weighs him as quick as she can and he resettles on my chest in seconds, comforted and home.

Time passes, the stitches finish and I can lay long and relax a little, watching my baby do really nothing much with Sam beside me. Then everyone else is gone. I shuffle over saying “Slide down, lay down please.”

He obliges and looks over my shoulder. The jostling wakes Daniel enough and he looks around, deciding now’s the time to turtle his way over to a big brown spot and attach himself to my breast.

“Atta boy,” Sam murmurs, “right on cue.”

It’s amazing, how it all works when it works.

“What did you retrain as?” I think to ask.

“Huh. A maternal child health nurse,” he answers, hesitating to smile. “I’m working with Ruth.”

I look up at him like _Really?! That’s the best news ever!_ and he smiles this wonderful warm humble smile. It’s a lovely smile. And then it dawns on me: “Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No,” he says, cautious and hopeful. “No, I’ve been waiting for things to change.”

I’m too doped out to be witty or shy. “Me?”

“Yeah.”

I grab his shirt again, and smile as hard as I can. He leans down and kisses me on the cheek, saying “Congratulations on being an awesome mom. I knew you would kick this in the ass.”

“Thank you.” I can’t believe my luck. “Wow. Two boys in one day.  Holy shit!”

Sam threads his fingers in mine, kisses the back of my hand, and lays beside me as we watch this new little life sleep and look perfect.

#### Day 1

I FaceTime with my parents and we cry and cry.  They’re happy tears, mostly, but neither of us ever envisioned that I'd have a child without my mom and I’ve never craved her embrace more.  I tell them all about the birth and how great Sam was and Mom promises she’ll convince my cousin Amanda to visit.  She’s in Wisconsin, and we haven’t spoken in about five years, but Mom is that desperate and that dismayed to be so far away, I don’t tell her not to.  In fact I hope Amanda says yes, no matter how awkward it is.

Sam arrives just as I’m trying to wrap it up.  I don’t yet want to breastfeed in front of them - it takes all my attention to get Daniel attached - but when Sam walks in, cooing at Daniel’s feeble cry for food, my mother’s interest cannot be drowned out.  She convinces him to turn the tablet and chat with her while I figure things out, and I’m too distracted to say anything more than “Yeah, sure, go for it.”

Sam sits in the chair by the bed and does his best to give her his attention, answering all her questions. “She was just so good.  I mean, I’ve attended maybe 800 births? She’s a trooper.  Just.  She nailed it,” he smiles at me, but I’m still frowning at Daniel fussing around my breast. “Hang on a tick?” he says and comes over to help.

Mom keeps chatting to Dad and we can hear her saying “Is he helping her with the breastfeeding?”  “What would he know about breastfeeding?” says Dad.  “Well, he’s a midwife,” she says.  “Probably lots… He is a dish isn’t he?”  “He looks tall.”  “ _Yes_. And kind.”

By this stage I’m amazed that Sam’s been able to tell me chest to chest, nipple to nose, wait for a big wide mouth and go, and I cringe so hard he says “You okay? Does it hurt?”

I whisper “Yes, cramps, but I am so sorry.  They don’t really get technology yet.”

My dad’s voice squeaks from the tablet while it faces the empty chair.  “I’ve never heard of a male midwife before.”  “Well I think it’s fabulous-” my mom interjects, “I hope she snaps him up.”  “Who wants a guy who looks at other women’s… you-know-whats all day?”  “He’s retrained! And anyway, you don’t think that’d just make him better educated?  Lord knows that would _not_ go astray.”

“You don’t have to keep talking to them,” I whisper again, in a whole other kind of pain, “if you want to leave.”

“I don’t wanna leave,” he says quietly.  “I came to see you and Daniel.”

He has his forearm leaning on the pillow behind me, a fist propped on the mattress by my hip, and his hair brushes around his cheeks as he leans.  I chance a look up at him.  I’m on the verge of crashing since the labour, fatigue about to tackle me to the mattress, yet still so exhilarated by the day.  To have him here looking at me close and gently - I feel a surge of gratitude and want and I grab a handful of his plaid shirt as it hangs from his chest.

I don’t know how to tell him, in this moment, how I’ve wanted him, but my hold on him seems to say enough and his smile grows a little, knowingly, and I see him look at my lips a few seconds before blinking himself straight.  

“You going to let me snap you up?” I ask quietly.

His dimples appear and he murmurs “I might play easy to get.”

I feel my heart thud high in my chest and I pull on his shirt, feeling his fingers slip over the top of my head as his lips land on mine.  It’s a little awkward, and far too quick, but we grin at each other from ear to ear.  He kisses me once more, firm and emphatic, before plopping back down in the bedside seat.  

“So Sam,” my mom starts up again.  “Tell us about Daniel.  Do you think he looks like Y/N?”

“Oh yeah,” he assures. “Beautiful… and amazing.  Just like his mom.”

**Author's Note:**

> And before you go me, I know octopuses have arms, not legs, but I thought “back arms” might be a little confusing.


End file.
